Knock-knock

Water flowed, hitting the metal sink and in overflowing abundance going down the drainage. A hand, strong and lined with veins momentarily stopped the flow with a plate which was placed underneath the flowing water. The glass plate moving back and forth under the water and when it was felt clean, pulled out, flung carefully back and forth, to exorcise it of the droplets of water hugging it like a limp child does the helper, before a cloth wipes it down and it ends in the rack. Another plate immediately takes it's spot under the water.

Her voice rose above the sound of the water and the holder of the plate smiled at what she said. His concentration tore between giving the plates the adequate care needed and her chatter.

"You're kidding right?" she laughed. "You, Cobly, was once a chef?"

Cobly nodded, smiling as he kept to rising the plates under the running water. He tore his gaze momentarily from his duties. "Why? Don't you believe it?"

"Do you believe it?" she exclaimed widely. "Who will believe this?" She chuckled. "Like say you were not Cobly..."

"But I am Cobly."

"Wait, wait. Let's say, maybe you were a Tom or a Jeffrey or whatever. And they asked you to say the honest truth what a Cobly's previous work is, what will you say?"

Cobly made a comical frowning face. "You are judging me right now by my cover."

She bent over in laughter."No I am not." And then the wheezing. "Am not."

"You have that guilty as charged expression." He said, drying a plate, placing it into the rack. "So, you are."

"Well, I have seen the outside and inside of this particular book."

Cobly mumbled something to himself as he gave her a lingering look.

"Oh don't. Don't give me that look," she said, her teasing smile in place. "You know I have."

"We should make it a mutual thing," he said. His rough voice teasing.

And then, she began coughing and wheezing from where she sat on the kitchen island.

"I did not mean that."

She managed to give him a look telling him that's absolute bullshit. Hitting her chest as her stomach tighten, her throat contracting, stressed overtime.

Cobly stood like an idiot. His hands underwater as he peered at her with worry. He was left contemplating when it was the right time to go over and help. For she had said she liked him because he didn't pity her. Was this one of those moments where those words should not be taken to heart.

"You meant that," she said after a long while. Her voice bloated and raspy. Her face still spread out in idiotic happiness. "What?" she exclaimed as she cleared her throat before eyeing his precarious movement, the shift in his body posture.

He lifted his eyes to her.

"Don't," she warned.

He nodded in understanding, continuing anyways, "What is your diagnosis?"

"Don't," she repeated. Her voice raspier.

"Is it maybe..." He exhaled loudly. "Is it maybe, c-c-cancer?"

She gave him a hard look with those eyes which already seems to be in close contact with her skull.

"What is it?" he prodded softly.

His question hung in the air like the stench of spoilt rice and they gaze at each other for several seconds. One with a stubborn, hard look, the other oozing pity and care.

She moved to leapt down and Cobly hurriedly dropped the plate he was about to rinse and moved to her side. As he came to her side, she slapped his hand away to which he flinched for her benefit.

"Why are you doing this?" she said.

Cobly kept his gaze at the sink.

"Don't do that. Don't.I said I liked you because you never pitied me; like the neighbors or all others. But..."

Was he crossing an invisible line by doing this? Cobly was thinking. He was well. He could go right through that door and continue with his life–at the ring. It wasn't perfect, but nothing is.

"Why the look?" she was asking. "All these questions. What had that got to do with anything? Do you feel you need to stay for me? Because you are repaying some dept, gratitude or something?"

"You are a hypocrite," he said interrupting her monologue.

Her head fell back to see him squarely. He has that determined look on his face. "What!"

"You heard me," he said. "You are a hypocrite! It was you who pitied me. Pick me up from where I was lying dead. Did it ever occur to you that I wanted to remain there. Dead."

She looked around. "What the..."

"You pitied me. Cared for me but when I try to do the same, I've sinned. Why? Because it's only I that is worth pitying. Am an injured dog."

"Cobly it is not..."

"I want to also care for you." He confessed, nestling himself in-between her laps. "Not because there is a sense of paying back but because you have to take responsibility for my living. You brought me back, so take responsibility! Live and take responsibility!

She gulped and tried to hold back the tears and giddiness breaking out.

Cobly tenderly rested his hands on her waist. As she coloured red, he smiled.

"And am enjoying this second life all because of you. I think I like you."

Her mouth opened. Cobly leaned in, watching her school girl expression. He waited. Their breath mixing together. She grabbed his shirt tightly, pushing him further in. Their mouth just inches apart.

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

She did.

His eyes took in her face, her protruding cheekbones, her lips. He descended. Seconds from meeting her sweetness, a harsh knock rattled the house.

Sandra eyes flew wide open. Her breath coming out quicker and shallower. She tried to steady herself. Calm herself down.

Meanwhile, Cobly looked from the door to her in frustration. He'd decided to forget the knock and focus on her, when the knock came again.

Sarah pushed him back, leapt down from the island and made way to the door. She opened the door with unresolved heat and was met by a glinting grin.

****

"Hey beautiful," the man at the door said.

"Tattoos," she whispered.

"Ahh?"

"I meant that you have a lot of tattoos!" she shouted. Her over the top voice was more than her throat could bear and she bent, wheezing away, the man shielding himself in disgust but inside, Cobly ears picked on.

"You have a lot of tattoos," she praised after the coughing espionage. "I am intrigued."

"I'm sure you are," the tattooed man replied, a tingle of disgust evident in his voice. He suddenly, dramatically clasped his hands together and his face was instantly caked in worry. "I am looking for my friend. I've asked people around and they said here is the place."

She looked at him confused.

"He went where he shouldn't have. Followed bad people. Gangs." His voice was heavy and teary as he explained. "And although I warned him, he was desperate for the money. But those bastards. Bad men. They turned against him and beat the living shit out of him." He paused, retrieving his handkerchief to wipe the corners of his eyes. "I heard you saved him, so can I see how my friend is doing?"

"I help a lot of people," Sarah replied. "As you are aware, we live in a gang dominated neighborhood, so I try to help as much as I can."

The man watched her in thought. "This took place three–four weeks ago. Ah!" He raised a finger. "I can show you his picture. It will jog those lazy memories." He hastily fished out his phone and in a minute, was shoving it towards Sarah. "That's my friend."

There was minutes of pregnant silence before Sarah busted out an exclamation.

"You remember him?" he said smiling.

"All this talk, when there was a picture you could've shown me," she replied laughing.

The tattooed man copied her sound although it felt like he was on the receiving end of cheap mockery. "I guess so," he said smiling. I am so foolish. I was just so worried. My friend who was supposed to be dead is still breathing, that brings so much tension."

She chuckled. "I know. I know!"

"So where is he ?" he asked quickly, trying to look past her.

"Where is who?"

His happy-go-lucky mood slipped but it was for a moment. "My friend. We have been worried sick. His condition, what he had to face. I have to see him to report back to his parents, that he is alive and recovering. That he is alive! This news would mean a lot to them."

"But, he is not here."